Sometimes
there are strands,
or roots, or fibers
of a thing -
growing over;
from one side
of life
to the next;
connecting the
inside and
the outside;
the up and
the down
pieces
that don't get
counted
in the equation.
The way she
was treated
as a child;
the
snide remark
that cut him
in two.
A special
place she had
to hide from
all the chaos;
a certain time
he could nestle
into
each day
to rest
from
it all.
These are
wispy,
flimsy,
gossamer
threads that
tie us to
huge chunks
of who we are;
to massive
contents of our
personal
meaning.
You can almost
miss them
in the people
that you know.
But,
look for them
they are essential.
They will
moor you
right to
the heart.
Which
is where
we
should want
to be.
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